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Atonement

September 21, 2026 by mountainmornings

This year, the Jewish holidays ambushed me.

My brother’s Celebration of Life landed on Rosh Hashanah, a New Year beginning amidst my last era of Minnesota Nice. My Mother the Flapper left us years ago while living on Lake Minnetonka; Jim had tucked her into bed the night before she died. My brother Mike is gone. There were no apples, no honey at our erev-shiva-like evening for Jim. Only testaments to a life well lived from friends and colleagues, some funny, some poignant some echoing his early life, our Year of Living Dangerously.

Through my fault, through my fault…

Today is Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement. We Jews confess our sins in the Temple, in public all together, not just on Fridays in a tiny confessional to a priest. The way I was taught for years at Sacred Heart School. We are supposed to fast, not even to drink water unless for some medical reason we must, like pregnancy. Or if we are in the business of saving lives, like say ER doctors? They get a pass.

Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…

Our country is at war, a US-Israeli illegitimate war with Iran. Israel is continuing its relentless war against Hamas in Gaza after the October 6th attack. The news is sickening: a building collapses killing 21 Palestinians; an American aircraft carrier, the USS Abraham Lincoln, is all but forgotten in the Middle East, and now Houthi rebels are threatening to close another strait, crippling Saudi Arabia. We are peeling an onion with repercussions beyond our understanding. Here at home, in of all places Philadelphia, Ed Sheeran is trying to resurrect his tour after ousting rapper Macklemore, saying, “My heart has been broken by the scale of devastation and loss of civilians’ lives, of children’s lives,”

 “I’ve had to take and make difficult decisions, and I am making mistakes and I’m so, so sorry for them. I don’t want to disappoint fans, and I’ve never wanted to be an activist musician, but this has put me in the middle of an important and passionate argument about freedom of speech and the most complex political issue on the planet.” https://www.theguardian.com/music/2026/sep/20/ed-sheeran-gaza-catastrophic-and-unjustifiable-first-show-tour-loop-philadelphia-us

Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us….

Can an artist be apolitical? Sheeran brings up a good point about freedom of speech. My very own artist, the Rocker, wrote an impassioned essay about/against censorship when he was the Pumpkin’s age in middle school. We Americans pride ourselves on this FIRST Amendment’s Constitutional Right – Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech. AND YET, this past weekend our President has banned three major news networks from the White House simply because he doesn’t like what they have to say about him! It does my heart good that the whole press pool has decided not to cover the President today.

Today is Yom Kippur, tonight the Book of Life will close. Who will be inscribed in the book to live another year, and who shall die? The funny thing is, not all Jews believe in the strict interpretation of the Torah. Reform American Judaism allows for many ways to practice our faith. This allowance for critical thinking, for dwelling in the grey, is what eventually sold me on conversion. Many of the Jewish people I know think Bibi is a war criminal, along with our own idiotic toddler-in-chief. We have had ten days to repent, to evaluate our lives and promise to do better. To listen to the ram’s horn. To do better, to listen, to behave with civility around others and online, to interact with AI or not? This is it for us, our chance to wipe the slate clean and begin again.

Instead of repenting, I’ve been on the phone with the VA about my brother, seeing to his affairs, trying to grieve with my sister. Looking after a Golden Retriever who was fostered by us for just a day because of his grieving family.

Yes, people go to a concert to be entertained. And people go to a football game to watch football. And yes, billionaires own these venues and they too have a right to free speech. That is our complicated and brilliant way of life here in America. As my Nana would say, “God help us.”

But we are on our own, there is no cavalry coming to save us from ourselves. The Book of Life never closes and every year is becoming more dangerous. If we want to get this tyrant out of office we must show up at the polls in November. In the Torah, the wedding processional comes before the funeral cortege if they happen to meet at a crossroad. Life comes first. Here we are celebrating two Virgo birthdays last week.

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“Trust but Verify”

September 15, 2026 by mountainmornings

This is the last thing my brother Jim said to me.

It was the end of a text chain the day before he died – I had sent him an essay on how AI is escaping its sandbox. It could write code to other modules and basically plan its own prison break, making any computer system in the world vulnerable to a malicious bot. Major news networks over the weekend have picked up the story; another AI researcher, Jacob Coxon, quit Anthropic saying it’s ‘crunch time for humanity.’ In ten years time, we could all be extinct! Jim’s response to my fear?

“Chris is this you or a bot?”

I forgot to say how funny my brother was, how he could make me laugh over the absurdity of day to day life. He was Seinfeld before Seinfeld was born. For example, when he got off the plane from MN for the Bride’s wedding, he ended up at UVA’s ER that night for a stroke evaluation. My daughter was a resident at Vandy, but she and her husband had trained at UVA’s med school and were friends with the physicians rotating through the Charlottesville ER. One young doc looked plaintively at my brother, not knowing he was a psychologist, only knowing he was a relative of the Bride, and asked, “When was the last time you felt normal?”

Jim looked over at us with his mischievous eyes and a sly grin. Bob, the Bride and Groom and I all burst out laughing!

Surprisingly, my brother thought AI was the bees knees. He had just signed up for a course on AI management and was using it in his work. His opinion was it was coming whether we liked it or not. It’s a tool, he said, and we better learn how to use it or be left behind. I, on the other hand, hate AI, and I mean Hate. I worry what will happen to the creative class, to children who will never learn how to write a complete sentence, and now unfortunately, I need to add armageddon to my list. But it was not unusual for us to spar intellectually.

I was against the Vietnam War. I saw my friends getting drafted to fight in a conflict we had no business fighting for; coming home maimed and broken. Our step-brother Eric had returned from working on a kibbutz in Israel and felt the same way. When he was drafted Eric refused to carry a gun, and so the Army trained him to be a helicopter pilot. He flew a medevac “Huey” and was one of only two pilots in his unit to survive. I asked him once if he wasn’t safer with a big red cross on the side of his Huey. “It’s more like a target,” he said.

Jim signed up for the war as a matter of honor. A Columbia U graduate, he was always proactive that way, and ended up in Officer Candidate School (OCS) in Georgia. I found his yearbook, yes they published a yearbook of the guys who made it through that grueling program and beside Jim’s picture it said “Infantry”… until someone noticed his score on the final test and rerouted him to Intelligence, probably saving his life.

With a pitstop in California at the Monterey Language School to add Vietnamese to his CV, he shipped out. Jim told me he was mostly partying in the Officer’s Club in a French Colonial building that held daily press briefings journalists called the “Five O’Clock Follies.” Making light of his situation, and not wanting the Flapper to worry I’m sure. He was an Intelligence Officer with a balcony view and sly sense of humor. Later I learned he was briefing generals. Probably interpreting secret documents. He and Eric met up only once over there.

Back at the Bride’s wedding, Jim and Eric sat down in my kitchen and discussed Vietnam for the first time. Two brothers – one who taught me about Motown Soul and the other who introduced me to Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie.

I found Jimmy’s Bronze Star at the back of his closet – for outstanding service against a hostile force in the Republic of Vietnam. He never told anyone that before he returned home for my wedding in 1969 he was awarded the Bronze Star.

I texted back to my brother, “This is me sending you a thing on AI” with a laughing emoji.

Jim loved quoting movies, philosophers and comedians. So of course he quoted Ronald Reagan, “Trust but verify.” I like to think my sister and I influenced him a bit, as his political views became more and more progressive over the years. I’m pretty sure I don’t trust AI. But I always trusted my brother to do the right and proper thing. I watched the Vikings game yesterday and thought about both of my MN brothers – the Vikings GM who stayed home to play with a friend on that July 4th weekend in 1949 when our lives changed forever, and Jim, who saw his mother, grandmother and sister laying on the side of the road unconscious and bleeding. He was only seven years old.

Today my sister Kay turns 92. In this picture from the Bride’s wedding Jim and Kay are sitting in front, Eric and his family are standing in the back to the right, and my Sister-in-Law, Jorja and my niece Lucia, to the left.

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James J Lynn, Ed.D

September 8, 2026 by mountainmornings

We could talk about Jim Lynn’s exterior life. He grew up in the coal country of Pennsylvania where his Irish ancestors landed generations ago. He worked on the railroad to put himself through Columbia University; enlisting in the Army during the Vietnam War as a matter of honor. He became an Intelligence Officer.

Psychologist and businessman Dr. Jim Lynn died on Sunday, September 6, 2026 at his desk, at home in Shorewood, MN. His sisters were awaiting a weekly invitation for their Zoom call that never came. Born in 1942, Jim was the fifth child in a family of six. He was almost seven years old when his father, Robert, died of a glioblastoma.

One of his earliest memories is of seeing his father return from the hospital with his head bandaged after brain surgery. His first thought was: “I’m going to fix people’s brains when I get older.” And that he did!

Obtaining a doctorate in psychology at the University of the Pacific, thanks to the GI Bill, Jim worked first as an educational psychologist. But it was applying science to the business world that most excited him.  He never wanted to live a 9 to 5 life, he wasn’t about to punch a time clock. 

Always an entrepreneur, the newly minted Dr. Lynn started his own consulting business in 1980 after moving to Minnesota to be closer to his family. He became an advisor and coach to multiple CEOs. He was an expert in adult learning, and a consultant to civic and government leaders. His expertise in public service leadership was known throughout the Twin Cities area.

Jim met his wife of 46 years, Anita Pankratz, while studying at the Monterey Language School in California before shipping out to Saigon. They were married overlooking the Santa Lucia Mountains of Big Sur. She was wearing white go-go boots and he was a handsome, young lieutenant.

When his younger sister once asked him what he actually did for companies that were in trouble, he simply said “I’m like their priest.” He was the best brother his sisters could ask for, a loving husband and loyal friend.

Over the years, Jim has mentored younger clinicians and advised friends and family with alacrity. Whenever there was a problem with school or career, Uncle Jim was always available. After his wife died in 2016, his neighbors rallied to support him in any way they could. A beloved member of the larger Excelsior community, Jim died doing what he loved most, helping others. He never retired from the life he loved.

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Clear the Decks

September 1, 2026 by mountainmornings

As the world awaits the verdict in the trial of Lindsay Clancy, I’ve also been trying to sell two chairs on Facebook Marketplace. With the imminent arrival of a sleeper sofa to our little casita, I need to clear out the living/room/storage area. It is currently host to my sister Kay’s power recliner (she now has her NY furniture), and an old leather, French bergere chair and ottoman that worked well in Rumson in the 80s and found a temporary home at the Bride’s house until she redecorated. TWO chairs – I thought it would be easy.

This is my first try at selling something on Marketplace. One person needs to get a truck, but wait, her son can’t help until tomorrow. And another wants to know if I deliver, and how much I charge??? I listed one chair as sold, and then had to change it back and lower the price. To make matters worse, I thought I was being hacked, because apparently AI responds to people in Messenger, or maybe it was prompting me? I’m not sure. But I am sure about NOT using AI. I avoid it at all costs, and if you’re paying attention you will too. Have you not heard about the AI modules who escaped their playground?

We all know AI chat bots have been creating chaos for teachers lately. I wonder how children will learn to write in the future, and what will happen to artistic expression. Then I think am I just being Aunt Bert asking me, “Where does your blog go?”

Enter the The Bank of England’s governor, Andrew Bailey. He is attending the G20 Summit in of all places Asheville, NC, and he issued a warning about the global economic risks of this technology. Bailey said “frontier” AI models were “showing increasingly sophisticated autonomy and problem-solving abilities, as well as threat capabilities… Recent developments have also highlighted to me that many jurisdictions do not have the protocols in place to manage the development, release, and deployment of advanced frontier AI models, heightening risks for the financial sector and beyond.” https://www.theguardian.com/business/2026/aug/31/advanced-frontier-ai-financial-stability-andrew-bailey-g20

And if that doesn’t get your attention, AI modules can also reproduce replicate themselves! Anthropic reports its modules can autonomously design and develop its own successor. This is called recursive self-improvement. I call it frightening. On the one hand, Meta must put some guardrails on its systems for teenagers, and on the other hand data centers are exploding in our communities the way cell phone towers once cropped up on the highest hills. I remember home owners complaining at Borough Council Meetings, and the Rumson Mayor throwing his hands up in the air about eminent domain.

While today the Commander in Chief chops down cherry trees for the DC golf course and appoints INFLUENCERS to the White House Press pool. And the Pentagon fires editors and reporters at the Stars and Stripes for speaking out about the need for editorial independence.

“It’s enough to make you crazy if you let it.”

The world is moving too fast, and for Mr T it is a strategy. Tear it down, and hey SCOTUS will let him continue to build the ballroom. But we all paused this week at the passing of an icon. Dolly Parton was beloved on both sides of the aisle, all the while quietly giving back to her community and progressive causes. This was her opening line to a reporter, “Ask me anything you want to ask me, and I’ll tell you what I want you to hear.” Well I for one would like to hear what a savvy business woman like Dolly thinks about AI. She said NO to Elvis, kept her song publishing rights and built a $650 million dollar empire.

When we moved here, I was so impressed with her Imagination Library, and remember how the Grands would love getting her books in the mail.

Dolly’s makeup artist was a drag queen, a friend of my hair stylist. She spread love and sparkled everywhere. Nashville is sorely missing her. In the 1980 movie “9 to 5,” she let women know they could be exactly themselves, fight back against sexual harassment, and look good doing it. Maybe they didn’t get equal pay in the movie, it took President Obama signing the Lily Ledbetter Fair Pay Act in 2009 to achieve that, but Dolly, Jane Fonda and Lily Tomlin gave our second wave feminist movement a boost.

We will always love you Dolly. If you’re so inclined, you may donate to her library here: https://imaginationlibrary.com/

Yesterday at the JCC

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The Fourth Trimester

August 25, 2026 by mountainmornings

My Daughter has a physician friend, a Pediatrician, who specializes in the Fourth Trimester. The time after childbirth – the messy, sleep deprived time when you wake and wonder where you left the baby. The breast abscess time. The confounding, mind numbing onslaught of well-wishers and casseroles.

There is no checklist for new moms; no course curriculum, no nursing visits, no lactation specialists at the ready. At least not in the US, unless of course you can afford help. And if you cannot, too bad. Maybe your mother moves in? The Flapper flew to the Berkshires when the Bride was born. I remember her showing me how to wash the baby’s hair in the sink. Since I’d had a C-section, I needed her help. She had never nursed her babies because the post WWII culture pushed formula and bottles on new moms, so I relied on Bag Balm and a La Leche League phone number.

When I was a newborn, my Father was dying in the dining room from a glioblastoma. My Mother’s doctor blessedly told her she didn’t need to sterilize the bottles, she could just wash them. I wonder who was helping her back in our Year of Living Dangerously. Did my Nana move in? Kay tells me that my crib was in her room.

Other countries have a wide-ranging social network humming along when a baby comes into the world. Parents get many months of paid leave for that first year of life; nurses show up at their home every week. In Finland, the government delivers a Baby Box full of supplies that doubles as a bassinet.

“Currently, the average length of maternity leave in the 27 EU member states is 23.5 weeks. However, some countries go far beyond this minimum requirement. In fact, several EU countries offer over 30 weeks of paid maternity leave, as well as additional parental leave, paid paternity leave, and flexible work arrangements to support families. One of the most notable examples is Sweden, which offers a total of 480 days of paid parental leave, of which 90 days are reserved for fathers. This approach recognizes the importance of shared parental responsibility and aims to promote gender equality, as well as offers financial and social support to families.” https://openpublichealthjournal.com/VOLUME/18/ELOCATOR/e18749445325867/FULLTEXT/

In the USA, 10 days of maternity leave is covered and on average, mothers return to work after 10 WEEKS.

Lindsay Clancy was a Labor and Delivery nurse. She had experienced postpartum depression after the birth of her first two children, and started to spiral again after her third baby was born in 2022. Because of her deteriorating mental health, she admitted herself to two different hospitals; one an out-patient program for postpartum depression in December 2022, and another as an in-patient in January 2023. They discharged her. She was preparing to go back to work, but on January 24 she heard voices telling her to kill herself and her children. She strangled them with exercise bands in her basement, then climbed to the roof of her house, slit her neck and wrists and jumped. Clancy is now paralyzed.

She called two suicide hot lines leading up to that day. She saw a few different doctors and had been prescribed too many psychiatric drugs. I know nothing of the relationship she had with her now divorced husband, or whether her in-laws or parents tried to help her. But I do know that at SIX months, after not sleeping for more than two hours at a time with my second baby, I woke up from six hours of uninterrupted sleep and promptly told Bob he didn’t need to admit me to a hospital after all. And I was serious, but I laughed.

Women in pink tee shirts have been showing up outside Clancy’s courthouse in Plymouth, Massachusetts. At first it was just a few, now there are hundreds in support of a mother who slid slowly from postpartum depression into full blown psychosis. How else could we explain what she did? They say the system failed her. Yesterday the defense asked for a mistrial because yet again, the prosecution brought up Clancy’s Roman Catholic faith. The request for a mistrial was denied. Her lawyer said:

“It’s the same thing again: talking about religion, talking about heaven, talking about killing people and the impact or the effect that it would have on Lindsay, as well as her children.”

One in seven women experience postpartum depression. Postpartum psychosis affects up to two women every 1,000 births.

There are civil suits against the mental health providers who treated Clancy in the works, filed by her ex-husband. If she is convicted of murder she will be sent to prison without the possibility of parole. If she is acquitted by reason of insanity, she will be sent to a psychiatric hospital. In my opinion, this was a mistrial from the very beginning. It is a Greek tragedy come to life, and the press is the chorus. When our country treats the needs of mothers and their children, of families, as a priority, when we support women instead of building a grand ballroom. Waging war against Iran and subverting our own rights at the ballot box.

I have a theory that the fourth trimester lasts a long, long time. My garden gate before a walk.

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Sofa Surfin

August 18, 2026 by mountainmornings

Since my sister Kay arrived in Nashville, she’s been pining for her blue couch. It arrives today from New York City.

Is it purely serendipity that everyone in our family was on the hunt for a new sofa at the same time? It all started with the Rocker and Aunt Kiki. They said goodbye to their starter home and just moved into another with room to grow for the Twins – and an actual playroom! So they packed up their car and went on a safari to IKEA to look for a durable sofa. Little did they know it would be like taking the girls to the circus. Their friends went along with another toddler and there was free range play all over the store capped by a lunch of Swedish meatballs. Note to young parents: if the heat is getting you down, try shopping at IKEA!

Meanwhile, Kay flew back to Manhattan to bid adieu to her Carnegie Hill apartment and retrieve her blue couch. Spoiler alert: I use “sofa” and “couch” interchangeably, but if you want to know the difference between the two, a couch is less formal and more comfy. It is from the French cucher, which means to sleep! A sofa, otoh, is more formal and structured, it’s a more decorative less functional piece of furniture. Believe me, I just looked it up!

Back in Nashville, the Bride was wanting to turn their second floor family room into a teenage hangout. Since the Love Bug is starting high school, with a newly painted bedroom btw, it was time to redesign the living areas of their house. The piano was moved upstairs, along with the small sectional in the family room off the kitchen. My daughter had her eye on the Lovesac – billed as “The World’s Most Adaptable Couch.” And with two kids and two dogs, she needed something sturdy, with zip-on zip-off machine washable pillow coverings. And so a sectional appeared one day in their study last week, in many boxes ready to unpack and put together, like so many comfy puzzle pieces.

A delightful niece joined Kay last week to help her pack up over 60 years of memories, while our realtor/nephew managed to put her 4th floor co-op on the market.

With couches on the move in one way or another, I realized I needed a sleeper sofa for the casita after we received its CO. Now sleeper sofas have evolved since the Jennifer Convertible sofa days when you were destined to sleep with a metal bar sticking somewhere into your back. I had one of those in my first marriage – let’s just say it was a tea rose covered chintz that is better left forgotten. We visited our local furniture store only to learn that the best of the breed is American Leather, no metal bars, and it doesn’t have to be leather; however, a queen sleeper would set us back $5,000 to $10,000… So, I did what any other rational human being would do, I turned to social media.

While Kay’s elevator was being replaced there, I had set her up with a futon-like, white sofa for a few months here. It was my first Facebook Marketplace find, direct from Wayfair and still in a box. But it was too hard to sit on and too white. It just wasn’t her blue couch that she bought with a dear friend a few years ago in NC, so it had to go. Oh, and her flight back to Nashville was cancelled, so Kay spent her last night in the City sleeping on another niece’s couch!

Musical Sofa Surfin is about to end. We’ve decided on a green Koala sleeper sofa for the casita and are simply waiting for the Labor Day Sale to order one. And along with the blue couch on the truck from NY, Kay’s artwork will appear today; as well as several tables and lamps and boxes. Enough I hope to make this place feel like home.

And Happy First Day of School to all those Southern parents sending their little ones off this week. Look at how these two Grands have grown!

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Tomayto Tomahto

August 11, 2026 by mountainmornings

There’s nothing like a Jersey tomato – all you need is white bread, mayo, salt and pepper, and lunch is served. New Jersey is the Garden State after all, and it grows more blueberries and cranberries than Cabot Cove. But after landing in the South, I’ve come to appreciate a ripe, organic, multicolored heirloom tomato. Sometimes, I’ll even slather on some pimento cheese and skip the mayo! And taking Southern a step further, who doesn’t love a fried green tomato?

This past weekend was East Nashville’s Tomato Festival, aka “Tomato Art Fest.” https://www.tomatoartfest.com/

Our cousin Peggy, our ice storm savior, is a fabulous cook who loves to host a good party and also happens to live in East. btw East Nashville has been called the Portlandia of the South, where artists and musicians congregate on Gothic front porches. Naturally, Peg threw a tomato cocktail party that couldn’t be beat! Her dining table was covered with tomatoes of many colors, a huge pot of gazpacho, skewered Caprese balls of yumminess, and all the fixins for the aforementioned sandwich.

We contributed my famous Mango Tomatillo Salsa. I say “we” because Bob is instrumental as sous chef in the kitchen – he chops the red onion when my crying gets out of hand, and he always cuts up the mango. This salsa recipe is over 25 years old, and that is hard to imagine! I first made it in NJ for the Bride’s college graduation party in our Rumson backyard. You know the one, with a tent under the mulberry tree where our dog Buddha grazed, and we first met the Bride’s college boyfriend. I still have the small cookbook – “Salsas, Sambals, Chutneys,& Chowchows – Intensely Flavored Little Dishes From Around the World,” by Schlesinger and Willoughby copyright 1993.

To be honest, I always thought a tomatillo was a Mexican tomato! But while searching Google, AI dissuaded me of that notion: . “Even though the word means “little tomato” in Spanish and they look like small green fruits, they belong to a different plant genus (Physalis). They are more closely related to ground cherries and cape gooseberries than to standard red or green tomatoes.”

Peg and her husband Paul had just converted a deck into a wraparound screened porch at the back of their historic house. And I must be accommodating to this climate, since the 90 degree temps felt lovely under two ceiling fans. There were no phones in sight as we met and mingled with their friends and neighbors – nurses, political activists, doctors, and potters. Their dog George, a black mini-Poodle, roamed around with his girlfriend, Gracie, a white Westie. I was dazzled by the sheer number of tomato earrings!

The Love Bug walked over to her friend’s house for a sleepover. The next day was the annual Tomato Festival parade and run with entertainment and FUN galore. Peggy is a runner so we wished her well. We tried talking the Pumpkin into entering a redhead contest, but he would have none of it. If only I had a tiny streak left of my strawberry blond hair. I was a chameleon as a kid, turning a deeper shade of red in the winter and nearly platinum blond in the summer. My Nana was the redhead in our family, a deep, glorious auburn color with braids wrapped around her head.

Please enjoy this tomato feast for the eyes!

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Something Blue

August 4, 2026 by mountainmornings

The Love Bug wanted to paint her bedroom her favorite color, BLUE, before school started, and sure her Mother could have hired a painter, taken the easy route. But where’s the fun in that? And what kind of lesson does outsourcing send to our kids? And though we haven’t done any painting in a dog’s age, we offered to help. Bob went to the paint store with them to get everything they needed – the rollers, brushes, tape, etc. And Saturday, the Grands came over to cart our long ladder over to their house. They were ready to begin.

I’ve lost track of how many rooms I’ve painted over the years. It’s never been a solitary activity. You order pizza, buy some beer, and invite your friends over to help paint. We even bartered a paint job with a tenant in the basement apartment of the medical school foursquare in Charlottesville. Free rent if he painted his apartment, which he did! We did a lot of painting and wallpapering in NJ, but right about the time we started building our house in the Blue Ridge Mountains, we realized it was best if the painting was left to the professionals. Also, we hit middle age.

Painting is a young person’s game.

The first day was all about preparation – laying down tarps, moving furniture, spackling picture holes and cracks, sanding and taping the trim. I forgot how much of painting is actually just getting ready to paint. The next day we were ready to begin. I offered to bring lunch, which was appreciated since the Groom was on call in the MICU and the Bride had two Bluebird appointments. I mean what else could I do? Ladders are verboten to me, and she has cathedral ceilings!

I did help pick the shade of blue. When I asked Bob what colors the Bug was considering he said, “Sky blue, sky blue and sky blue.” I swear sometimes I think Bob is color blind. SO I marched myself over to their house in the middle of the week to look at the three swatches of blue on the Bug’s bedroom wall. One was too green. Of the remaining two periwinkle colors one was lighter than the other. Good thing I sided with the rest of the females in the family. The deeper shade won, Sherwin Williams’ “Something Blue.”

Picking out the wall colors for the casita was easy. I just asked my brilliant designer DIL, Aunt Kiki, what was hip in off-white these days. The last time I picked an off-white it was Navajo White, which almost looks beige. She told me she loves Swiss Coffee, and so I looked it up – it’s a creamy, warm off white with a balanced light reflection value (LRV), and looks great with natural woods according to the experts. It also looks good with my sage green kitchen cabinets.

But back to Funday Sunday After lunch, my main job was holding the ladder for the Love Bug, a most important role! After all, she was reaching eleven feet up in the air! The Pumpkin was relaxing since he was going to do most of the rolling with a very long handle, while Bob and the Bride used brushes to paint near the white trim. After a couple of hours, the Groom arrived back from the hospital to take over the tall, ceiling adjacent painting on the ladder. At one point, I was able to dab a little paint around her closet door, which was extremely satisfying.

We laughed, we told stories, we listened to Olivia Rodrigo on my phone. And now, the about to turn 14 beautiful Bug can say she painted her own room, with a little help from her fam. ps – just looked up Olivia Rodrigo tickets for her Nashville dates and she is sold OUT! Well, it was a good birthday present idea. ps Proposed amendment to the Torah – Parents teach your children how to swim and paint!

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Always Hooping

July 28, 2026 by mountainmornings

A few things happened this week: the Rocker and Aunt Kiki moved into their new home; the Bride and Groom returned from their beach vacation; and we got our Certificate of Occupancy (CO) for the casita. We also escorted my sister Kay to Costco, again. These were not small tasks. But in the middle of ordering a sleeper sofa and finding just the right painting to hang in the casita’s tiny kitchen, I did read a bit about the rescheduled White House Correspondents’ Association Dinner (WHCAD).

What a jerk! Mr T was only too happy to bring his revenge tour to the people he calls “fake news.’ He attacked the incredibly handsome Senator Jon Osoff, spewed vitriol at Kaitlan Collins telling her she should smile more like some deranged domestic abuser, and threw his hands up in mock surrender when the Wall Street Journal received their award for investigating Mr T’s relationship with Jeffrey Epstein. CNN’s Wold Blitzer said out loud in front of one and all:

“Trump quickly filed a $20 billion lawsuit against The Journal, revealing reporter Khadeeja Safdar’s home address. Her family had to be relocated. The Journal was kicked off of Air Force One.” https://www.nytimes.com/2026/07/25/us/politics/trump-white-house-correspondents-dinner-speech.html?unlocked_article_code=1.1FA.5UQO.jluP4muk5KgI&smid=url-share

Let’s not forget his DOJ’s subpoenas of NYTimes reporters that was just quashed! Someone said this dinner was like a celebration of firefighters where the arsonist was invited to give the keynote speech. I’m beginning to question the need for a WHCAD. It’s a relic of the golden days of journalism, where mostly men with cigars clamped between their teeth sought to aggrandize themselves in the political halls of power. They could get dressed up and poke fun at the politicians they covered, because there was an unspoken agreement. Big secrets could be kept, like FDR’s wheelchair, for the greater good.

That all ended with Watergate.

Just for a moment, let’s compare and contrast another American president’s character this past week. If you’ve been following along with the WNBA, you may be aware of the slow social media rumble around another Kaitlan – Caitlin Clark. After a black player appeared to have hit her in the throat and a foul wasn’t called, a number of Republicans jumped in to write the league a letter! Imagine that, they can’t condemn their own president but they sure want to ‘protect’ their token white player.

“As Commissioner, you have an obligation to ensure that every player competes in a safe and professional environment, both on and off the court, free from violence, discrimination, or retaliation,” the letter said. “If discrimination or retaliation is occurring and creating a hostile work environment, we support any appropriate investigation by the Department of Justice, the Department of Labor, or the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. If true, such conduct could constitute violations of federal civil rights laws.” https://www.theguardian.com/sport/2026/jul/09/republicans-ask-wnba-to-protect-caitlin-clark-from-possible-racially-motivated-attacks

Then this week President Barrack Obama stopped by a WNBA practice session at the new Presidential Library in Chicago. He put his arm around Clark, the Fever’s 24-year-old guard, and told her not to listen to all the noise (race baiting). He said she’s young to have so much fame happening and it’s hard; that she’s an excellent player, and she shouldn’t lose the joy of playing, she needs to keep hooping! He said, “You’re always hooping, and you’re on a nice little run right now.”

He didn’t tell her to smile more.

I was crying last night while chopping red onions for the mango tomatillo salsa I’m bringing to a Mahjongg birthday party today. We’ll chat about the skunk that’s discovered my bird feeder and politely ask for a Joker exchange, as usual. Bob always gets to chop up the mangoes.

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On Condition of Anonymity

July 21, 2026 by mountainmornings

My husband Bob flew a small 4-seater plane, a Piper Arrow, for awhile. Being a private pilot was his idea of recreation. He learned to fly in medical school. I think he loved being up above the clouds, away from the sturm and drang of everyday existence – out of touch and away from his training, floating in space. The only problem was when we married, I was a reluctant co-pilot; I abhorred encountering ‘weather,’ disliked getting my head tossed about, and lost it when our electrical system failed and we had to make an emergency landing. Of course this ER doc loved it! Bob cherished the checklists and had back-up plan after back-up plan ready to go.

So naturally I followed the NYTimes reporting about Mr T at the NATO summit in Turkey, switching up his new Air Force One, a grift from a Qatari prince, to an older model.

After all, who doesn’t travel with two jets? Supposedly the Secret Service was worried about the new jet’s defensive capabilities after the war that isn’t a war with Iran escalated. Once the news broke, Mr T made light of the situation saying they were sending the plane in to get “maxxed out!” The story might have died there… but the Grifter-in-Chief sensed a leak. He sent his DOJ into overdrive, subpoenaing Times journalists and their phone records for the whole year, including their family members!

Journalists in this country depend on a condition of anonymity. If our sources don’t want to be identified, we make a solemn promise to keep their identity out of print. We cannot be compelled to divulge that information, even by a judge. For most reporters of a certain age, myself included, we would rather go to jail. The NYTimes so far has quashed the subpoenas. The DOJ has said “… reporters are not the targets, those leaking classified information are.” Which sounds an awful lot like this will hurt me more than it will hurt you.

Over the years, I’ve heard many people say, “Don’t quote me on that.” So you learn to write, “A trusted source,” or “A friend told me,” or “The word on the street.” If a reporter gives up their source, and don’t forget we usually need three sources to substantiate information, they may as well hang up their pen along with their integrity. Luckily, I was never asked. No one needed to know who called the new Borough Hall paint color Pepto Bismol pink.

After three more American service members were killed this weekend, bringing the number of deaths to 17 with one MIA and hundreds injured, this administration has cleverly turned the tables of anonymity. This is a typical, adolescent MAGA tactic, the “No I didn’t lie about the election… YOU lied!” Hegseth captured the news cycle with testing the troops for testosterone, delaying the latest statistics in an unpopular and unending war/ceasefire/war with Iran.

“Eric Schmitt of the New York Times noted that lack of information from the Pentagon today when he reported that in the week before the weekend’s deaths, three Iranian strikes injured military personnel and damaged several helicopters yet the Pentagon under Defense Secretary Pete Hegseth did not disclose the strikes, the casualties, or the damage to the American people, citing the need to keep information about operations secure.” https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/us-politics

The need for security vs the need to know. Press freedom is fundamental to our Constitution. Thank God a judge has issued a temporary restraining order on the 81 Billion dollar merger between Paramount and Warner Brothers Discovery. That deal would put two trusted news sources, CNN and CBS, under the ownership of the Ellison family – all acolytes of DJ Trump. Have you tried watching Sixty Minutes lately? Will our democracy die through propaganda? Even Fox didn’t carry Mr T’s deranged primetime speech about election fraud this week.

Bob has told me that flying through white clouds and all of a sudden seeing the runway appear was always transcendental. For me it was a leap of faith, knowing my husband could land the plane and reciting the rosary on the way down. While ICE continues to shoot and kill people in our streets, and this president wages war on the Persian people and continues to concentrate power in the Executive branch, I have to believe that the American people will show up in force this November.

ps – this Virginia cousin can now VOTE!

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